Decisions
by vietnAMAZING
Summary: AU. Buffy and Angel have the life they always wanted, until Buffy gets pregnant. Deadset against children, Buffy and Angel separate, and Buffy begins a whirlwind romance with her new boss, Spike. Give it a chance. R&R.
1. Chapter 1

She pulled her jeans on, and swept her hair into a ponytail, then stood at her bedroom doorway. "Angel," she called, "have you seen my shoes?" She stepped into the hallway and peered down toward the kitchen. Their New York flat was charming, but tiny. "I can't find them in the bedroom!" 

"Nope," he replied, taking a large gulp of his coffee, which had been lightened with cream. Sugar sloshed at the bottom: he was never patient enough to stir. "Buffy, can you ever find anything? Maybe if you clean the God damned place," he jibed, and she made a face at him.

"I've been really busy," she countered, sliding her feet into last resort tennis shoes. "Are we late yet?" They were due to play a round of tennis at Xander's at seven.

"Not yet, but you're getting there." Angel took a seat at the kitchen table, and watched his wife rush around. She picked things up, and threw them back down. She touched up her lip gloss. "Ready?"

"I think so," she admitted sheepishly, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Kiss me." Angel dipped his head down, and pressed his lips against hers. She really was beautiful: golden hair pulled into a sloppy ponytail; hazel eyes; a slim, lithe body that had more energy and charisma than he'd ever imagined was possible in a woman, and he loved her, more than anything. They'd planned their lives together: by the time they were settled, he'd be a high powered stock broker on Wall Street, she'd be a big time writer at ABC. They had decided two years ago, when they married, that there was no room in their lives for children. Their wallets were considerably large already, and the only thing they had room for, was bigger wallets, more power, and indefinitely more money.

"We're late," he muttered as he pulled away. Buffy smiled.

"Fuck tennis," she whispered, pulling Angel into the bedroom.

---

Angel trailed several lazy kisses across his wife's collarbone. His saliva mixed with her sweet scent, and she smiled as she ran her fingers through his hair. "Angel," she whispered.

"Hm?"

"You're my destiny," she said, laying her head on his chest and closing her eyes.

"Yeah," he confirmed, falling to sleep with the affirmation.

---

Buffy hurried up the stairs; she was thirty minutes late for the writers' meeting on All My Children. The twelve of them were going to decide this week whether or not Susan Lucci's character would survive a horrible car accident which had happened on Friday's show. She bustled through the doors, breathing an apology as she slid into her usual chair, then looked up to beam into Riley Finn, the producer's face. But Riley wasn't there. "Good morning, Miss..."

"Buffy," she said, blushing furiously. Who was this man?

"Buffy. I'm William Robinson." He spoke in clipped English, and handed her a sheet of paper. "This is your briefing. You and Harold will be writing about Ms. Kane's demise." She nodded, her cheeks still rosy from embarrassment. "You'll be done promptly tomorrow, at noon. And I do mean prompt."

He must have read her file. She was never prompt, but did superb work. "Yes sir," she muttered, straightening the papers.

"Please," he said, smiling. "Call me Spike."

---

Rumors were flying fast around the office. "Spike" Robinson had once worked on his own show, "Vivian Bay," until he moved from California to New York. He sold the show to the rival soap, Days, and they merged the two. He'd come into All My Children as executive producer, and even got the corner office Buffy had been lusting after for three years. The writers and actors were saying he used to be a drug dealer; he'd dated Sienna Miller in the UK; he was going to fire three writers by the end of the month.

Buffy's desk phone lit up. Line one was on hold, line two was Faith fussing about not being able to make it in to shoot today, and line three's caller ID read, "William Robinson." "Shit, Faith, hold on. The new exec is on three…Buffy speaking."

"Buffy."

"Uh huh," she chirped, tapping her pen on the ink blotter under her keyboard.

"It's Spike."

"Uh huh," she intoned deeper, more serious. She straightened. "Yeah, I mean, yes, um, can I do something for you, sir--er, Spike?"

"Come to my office. We have some things to discuss."

"Should I, uh, bring anything?" What she was really thinking was, 'should I clean out my desk?'

"Just a pen. You'll be signing some papers."

"Okay," she said, then whimpered and she clicked back to Faith. "Sorry, Faith…Exec wants me in his office." Line one was dead, and she killed two. She straightened her desk, then made her way through the maze of offices, stopping short in front of the nameplate that read William Robinson.

"Sir, you wanted to see me?"

"Oh, Buffy. Come in, sit down." She sat on the edge of the chair across from him. "How are you? Coffee?"

She thought of Angel's cream and sugar slush that morning. "No, thanks," she answered, nervously clicking the pen. She was running job options through her mind. Her mom's New York gallery needed a receptionist. General Hospital just lost one of their writers to the new Day's setup. McDonalds was always hiring. How much did it cost to run a kiosk in China Town?

"Buffy, I've been looking at all the writer's files, and I'm sure you've heard three of the twelve writers will no longer be needed." Her heart was thumping in her throat. "I'm sure you know it does take work for me to decide which of you guys to let go. You are all decidedly decent writers, with decent tenure. I see you've been with us for three, almost four years." She nodded, tears welling up behind her eyes. Her throat was tight. "You don't seem too dedicated, Miss…Summers? You're consistently late, you miss deadlines, you always ask for an extension, not once in almost four years have you been on time."

"I'm sorry," she managed to squeak, her eyebrows knitting together. "I just…"

"No excuses are allowed here. You're just not suited for the writer's job. Which is why we're moving you to plot supervision script editor. You'll move from the writer's wing down the hall, to the office next door. You'll be given a producer's salary, as well as a bonus for your sign on." He set some papers in front of her. "That is, of course, if you'll take the job."

"I, I, but, McDonalds," she whimpered. She had already resigned herself to the hat and maroon polo.

"McDonalds? Is he a writer?"

"No, I, um, nothing," she said hurriedly, scribbling her name across the papers. She leaned back to glimpse into her new office. "When do I move in?"


	2. Chapter 2

AN; I forgot mention in the first chapter that this was loosely based on the novel "Heartbeat." Also, the restaurant mentioned in this chapter, "The Bistro," and any sequential mention to "The Bistro" is homage to waiterrant. Give Buffy and Angel's relationship a little time to unravel, and trust me, it is going to be a good story if it kills me. And also, I don't own these characters.

* * *

The stairs leading to her apartment were narrow and old, but she told Angel they were essential to New York apartments, especially one facing the road so near to China Town. It was in a bad neighborhood, but the inside was beautiful and cozy; so like her own home in California that she couldn't bear to leave it behind, squeezing Angel's hand that day four years ago, saying, "baby, please, it's perfect," and he'd given in and emptied his wallet on the counter for a down payment. This was their home and it was perfect. Buffy reached into her pocket to make sure the folded check was still there. He'd written it from his own checkbook, out to Buffy Summers, for the cool sum of ten thousand dollars. Her heart was thumping and she turned her key in the doorknob, and glanced into the apartment.

"Hey," he answered warmly, peeking out through the kitchen. "Good day?"

"Amazing day!" she exclaimed, rushing from the doorway into the kitchen. She buried herself in his arms, "I got a raise!"

"That's really--"

"And a promotion!"

"Wow, Buffy, I--"

"And a bonus!"

Angel stood, bringing Buffy with him. "You," he answered, giving her a soft kiss. "Are awesome." She smiled up at him, then produced the check Spike had written. Unfolding it, she waved it in his face. "Let me see!"

Buffy proudly handed him the check, and took a seat at the kitchen table, helping herself to Angel's drink.

"William Robinson, huh?"

"Yeah, he's our new exec. I came in late to the briefing this morning and he was there all like, 'Buffy you're always late blah blah promotion blah blah blah.' "

"Buff, do you remember when I was first starting out on Wall Street as the go-to guy at the Smith firm?"

"Yeah?"

"William Robinson was the first client I bought for. He got me fired from Smith because his stocks plummeted."

"Angel, that was four years ago."

"This guy is an asshole." He tossed her check onto the table.

* * *

Willow emptied her coffee cup, savoring the last of her skinny latte. Buffy was, not surprisingly, twenty minutes late for their regular Monday evening meeting. They were meeting at The Bistro, as they had for the past six years. "Sorry," her friend breathed, sliding into her usual spot at the booth across from her friend. "Skinny latte?" she asked, picking up the cup on the table. She took a long drink then set it down, beaming at her friend. "New hair?"

Willow's long brown hair was braided loosely and pulled to the side. "Yeah," she said, fingering the braid. "Like it?"

"Oh, well...it's okay, but nothing's like your usual red."

"Yeah. Anyway, tell me about William Robinson."

"Ohmigawd, Will. He's gorgeous firstly...totally different from Angel. And he's cocky and British. And!" she reached into her purse. She slid the check across the table and watched as Willow raised her brows.

"He lives in the Trump Tower."

"Exactly. He has a lot of money."

"Are you going to cash this check?"

"Yeah. eventually. I want to savor having it first."

Willow laughed, and signaled for the waitress to bring another coffee. "So? Anything else new since last Monday?"

"Not much," Buffy admitted, "IthinkI'mpregnant," she said, covering her mouth with the coffee cup.

"You what?"

"I think I'm pregnant. I've been throwing up in the mornings, I've gained three pounds, and I'm a two weeks late."

"Gonna tell Angel?"

* * *

"Angel, I have to tell you something."

Angel stared at his wife from across the table. She had cooked him a real meal for the first time in months. "Let me guess. It has to do with Spike Robinson?"

"No, no. Nothing with him."

"Okay, I give up."

"I'm late."

"How can you be late to your own house for dinner?" Angel laughed, and grabbed his wife's hand. "Baby, dinner at seven thirty is fine."

"No, Angel, I'm late-late." He blinked, searching her face for answers. Her hazel eyes were cloudy, and he wondered briefly what he could do to chase away the storms. He loved this woman with such completeness.

"So, we'll take care of it," he answered. "Make an appointment tomorrow. Pull the money out of that bonus check."

"Right," she answered sullenly, setting her fork down. "I'm not hungry." She thought of the money sitting in her bank account. Her accumulated small fortune. She and Angel split the bills right down the middle, from the groceries to the utilities.

"It's okay," her answered, taking her plate and putting it in the sink. "Thanks for dinner." He put his hand under her chin, and kissed her softly. "After we get this taken care of, everything will be perfect again," he whispered. "Goodnight."

She sat at the table in silence, and watched the city lights burn outside. "Maybe," she told the kitchen, her voice steady and calm. "Maybe I don't want perfect."


	3. Chapter 3

Buffy Summers' case file was an inch thick. It was full of work spanning ten years back. The twenty-seven year old woman was by far, the smartest woman on the team, closest and more prone to success. Spike leaned back in his chair, and looked over some more of the work. The woman, more than smart, was beautiful. She was charismatic, and the whole staff adored her. She was on ninety-five percent of the staff's speed dial, and most of the time in her office, when not spent poring over the week's scripts, she was scribbling notes, or on the phone with a producer, actor, or camera man. Today, however, her office was quiet. He had peeked in earlier, and her phone was off the hook. Her pen, usually well chewed and abused, was sitting at the edge of the desk, and she was looking over some papers. Not the script. "Everything okay, love?" he called, and she looked up, and gave a weak smile.

"Everything is fine," she confirmed, holding the paper up. "Memo, from Faith Hutchins." Spike nodded curtly. There was something about that woman that pulled at every inch of him, made the bottom of his stomach do twists and turns. Made his body react in ways they hadn't since his divorce from Drusilla three years earlier. He sat down in front of his computer, and stared at his monitor, waiting for it to come to life. Seventeen unread e-mails. Curse it. He was due to have the children, Emily, who was two, and Brennan, who was six, this weekend. But with work never slowing down, and the ratings going straight to hell, he wasn't sure he'd even be able to get home to put food in the refrigerator before their plane landed.

"Damn!" he cursed, scrolling through the e-mail. Rescheduled board meetings, a new shooting script and shooting schedule for next week, a business lunch for the new script supervisor. That caught his attention. He picked up his phone, and dialed her extension. "Buffy," he said when she answered. "We have a business lunch scheduled for tomorrow at two, did you notice? Well, it looks like I won't be able to make it, my kids are flying in tonight from California...unless I could bring them? Wonderful, I'm so glad you don't mind...right, I'll pick you up? One-thirty, sharp...consider it a date...ah, well, a business date." He coughed. What he would give to date the woman. He could hear her laughter ringing from next door.

* * *

His Porsche looked out of place parked between her Toyota and his BMW, both older than five years, and beat up from New York City life. "Brennan, watch Em, while I run up and go get the chit, huh?" He knocked on the door, and waited several minutes. Where was this bird? It was one thirty-seven, they were going to be late.

"Sorry," she called, halting at the door. "Sorry," she repeated, smiling up at him. Damn, that smile. "I, uh, well, are excuses allowed in my hallway?"

"Sure, love."

"I couldn't find my red high heels." She grinned, then showed him the shoes. They were obviously expensive.

"Look great, pet," he said, ushering her down the hall to his car. "We have a reservation at The Bistro," he said, opening the door. "Ever been?"

"About six thousand times," she said. "I go every Monday."

"Ah," he said, nodding. "It's superb. Bren, meet Buffy. Buffy, this is Bren, and this little angel is Emily."

"Hi, Emily doesn't talk," Brennan offered, holding out his hand to shake hers. "Mum says she'll learn soon."

Buffy laughed. She was surprised the blond had such beautiful children. "How old are you, Bren?"

"Six," he replied, matter-of-factly, "how old are you?"

"Bren, you never ask a lady," his father interrupted, pulling out onto Broadway.

"Twenty-seven," she whispered to him. "But don't tell your father."

* * *

When lunch was over, Bren and Em were sound asleep. Smoothly maneuvering his car through New York's least used roads, he made his way toward's Buffy's flat. "Thanks," he said, glancing over at her.

"For what?"

"Lettin' me bring the little bits."

"Oh, no problem. They're adorable."

He smiled, obviously proud of his babies. "Thanks."

He parked in front of her apartment. Angel's BMW was gone. He looked toward the weather beaten door, and then at her. "See you Monday?"

"Bright and early," she confirmed, smiling softly. They leaned in toward each other, until their lips were gently touching. Her lips parted, and she pulled him closer; filling in an emptiness she'd felt since Angel told her to get the abortion.

"Gross," Brennan chimed from the backseat. "Dad! Cooties!"

"Wow," Buffy breathed, the back of her hand on her lips. "Spike, I am so sorry, I don't know what came over me."

"See you Monday," he said again softly, turning to face the road. "Bright and early."


	4. Chapter 4

The woman in the mirror wasn't someone she was unaccustomed to, just someone she wasn't sure she wanted to see. Her features were pallid, her cheekbones covered with rouge and her lips with carefully thought out lipstick: a soft pink she thought wasn't too outstanding. She dried her wet hands on her sweats, and thought of Willow waiting only three feet away. "My backbone," she whispered, wiping sweat from her forehead. "I'm ready," she conceded, meeting her gaze, someone who didn't want to do it. Opening the door, she smiled shyly at the nurse.

"Are you okay, dear?" she said, cuffing her shoulder and leading her sternly into the room. It was a clean room, silver, and white, and sterile. A bed with stirrups, covered in tissue paper. A sink with a pink bin in it. A machine, there really was no other way to put it, on a steel table. Buffy wrapped her arms around herself. "Have a seat right there on the bed, Ms. Summers. My, I see, you're three weeks along. Some women just make their minds up quickly." She indicated the bed again, and ushered Buffy closer. "The doctor will be in in just a moment, okay? Go ahead and disrobe, put on this little gown. After the procedure, I'll give you some pain killers, and another pill to close your cervix. You're going to have some uncomfortable cramps, okay? And I'll also get you a perscription for birth control."

"I don't need birth control," Buffy said, staring the woman in the face. "I'm not sure, I, what happens to the baby?"

"The baby goes from the machine to a small bin, where it is disposed of."

"Disposed of," Buffy repeated, her hazel eyes blank.

"I'll get Dr. Tomlinson."

"No, no. No—I mean, I don't think I can do it."

"Did you see the counselor, dear?"

"Yes, I saw the counselor, dear. Yes, I did everything, I did it right. I just can't do this." Her voice was shaking, her hands were balled into fists. Sweaty, again.

"Oh, well, it's your decision. Let me get you that birth control perscription."

"I'm already pregnant," Buffy answered, her hand on the door. "I don't think it's going to help much." She pushed the door open. Willow stood quickly, the question in her eyes. Buffy shook her head. "Do you think Angel will be mad?" she asked, holding Willow's hand on her way to the car. Tears were hot on her cheeks. For the first time in four years, she was unsure of herself. Unsure where she stood, where to turn. She wanted to run away from something she hated, but loved at the same time. For the first time since she met Angel, she hated him.

* * *

"What do you mean, you didn't do it? You just couldn't do it? I don't understand. You don't do anything, the doctor does the work. It's not like you couldn't afford it. Buffy, I don't understand!" Angel's eyebrows knit together, his fists pounded against the table. Buffy was sure he shook the whole building, he shook the whole city. He looked miserable.

"Angel, it's our baby. Why should we punish it for our mistake?"

"We're only punishing ourselves!" His voice carried out the windows; this city never slept because it's inhabitants were never quiet enough. He stood, his hands braced against the table, and pushed it out of his way. It toppled over onto the chairs, and they splayed across the kitchen. "Dammit, Buffy!"

"Quit," she whispered, burying her head in a pillow on the couch. "You're making me sick to my stomach."

"It's not me," he yelled, throwing the glasses from the countertop. They shattered on the wood floors. "It's your fucking baby, Buffy."

"It's your baby, too," she fired back, and stormed into their room. She pulled out a bag, and filled it. Underwear, shirts, jeans, slacks, skirts. Two pairs of shoes.

"What are you doing, Buffy?"

"I can't sleep with a murderer," she whispered in response, her cheeks burning. "I need to cool off."

"Fuck you," he said, shoving her shoulder. "We can't have this baby. If you want the baby, I was a fucking divorce. And you aren't going anywhere. You're a fucking bitch, Buffy. So fuck you. Fuck you." She slung the bag over the opposite shoulder, and looked at him.

"You're drunk," she said. Her voice was cool when she added, "I'll see you in court. Asshole."

* * *

"Thanks, Xander," Buffy whispered from the couch. Her face was tear streaked, mascara trails leading the way from her eyes to her chin.

"No prob, Buffster," he said. "Lights out? Still scared of the dark?" he smiled. She missed his voice, his life. They rarely saw each other anymore, with his booming construction company building half of New York; and her career taking off with such promise.

Buffy managed a laugh, then looked at her best friend. "Just a little light," she whispered. "Just tonight."

* * *

"Thanks again, Buffy, for lettin' the little bits come," Spike said from her doorway. The woman looked less than on target today. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing," she said, looking back at her computer screen. "And it's no problem, they were adorable."

"Buffy, you know, you're kind of a celebrity in the city. You've written several screen plays, and you're no stranger to the paparazzi."

"I know," Buffy said, looking up at her executive producer, a quizzical smile on her face. "What are you playing at?"

"The cover of the entertainment section in USA Today, is you leaving your flat at three AM, with a bag on your shoulder." Her eyes closed.

"Shit."

"Buffy, I'm sorry. This has nothing to do with work, I just thought, if you wanted to talk..."

"Can we go to lunch?" Buffy was shutting her computer down. "I'd really like to just go have a glass of champagne."

He cocked his head, staring at the woman he had been lusting after since she set foot in the office. "Sure."

"Let me just get this papers ready, and I'll ring your extension, okay?" He nodded, and moved slowly toward his office, replaying the scene in his mind. What the hell did he do, what did he say, to make her ask him out? Did she ask him out? Was this a date?

She gathered the stack of papers, then looked down at them. Four years, down the drain, she thought, tapping her pen on them. Buffy Anne Summers petitions for divorce. "Damn," she whispered, pressing her signature onto all the right lines. She slid them into the manilla envelope, and taped it closed. She put a stamp on the outside, then addressed it to her own home. "Dear Angel," she whispered as she addressed it, "you suck." Sliding it into her outbox, she picked up her phone. "Spike? I'm ready."

* * *

AN: I really like the idea of this story, and from the amount of hits it's getting, so do some other people. But, without positive feedback, I just don't see the need to continue writing. Every writer loves reviews, and I review every story I read. So, do me a favor: REVIEW! I won't be adding another installment, if I don't get any reviews, because what's the point of writing, if no one reads? 


	5. Chapter 5

Buffy held the long stemmed glass precariously. She took a long sip, then set the glass down. "They have the best champagne," she told her producer, meeting his gaze with a brazenness he'd missed so much. "My husband—Angel and I came here to celebrate our anniversary the first time, and, well, we were still broke then." Her eyes sparkled at the memory. "We ordered one bottle of champagne, and I got so drunk," by this time her laughter was ringing loudly across the restaurant. "After that, we couldn't even afford dinner, and we blew our whole month's budget, so we walked home in the freezing cold like two miles. I was wearing high heels, and he had to carry me the last mile."

"Sounds amazing," Spike answered truthfully. "Love, if you don't mind, what made you leave last night?"

"Spike," she answered, picking the champagne glass back up, but not taking any. She was mindful of the life inside her, tearing her marriage apart. "You know, when you get married you make promises, and sometimes...you just can't keep them."

"I know," he admitted, picking up his own champagne glass. He raised his glass, and they tipped them until the lips met, and kissed, the champagne on the edge of her glass pooling. When they pulled them apart, the droplet splashed onto the table. "To broken promises," he said.

"To broken promises," Buffy said. She took another sip of her champagne. "Spike, is it true you dated Sienna Miller?" The corner of his lips turned, and he laughed.

"Pet, if I had the chance at the likes of Sienna Miller, I don't think I'd ever come to New York."

"Then you'd never meet me," she said. "Not, uh—not that there's anything."

"Right," he said. "You ready to head back?"

* * *

Angel was in Fresno on business. She'd called his secretary, Harmony something-or-other, and told him she'd be in the apartment while he was gone. She made a few phone calls, and she watched as a balding man unceremoniously pulled the lock off, and replaced it. "This it, Miss?" She nodded.

"How much should I write the check for?"

"Twenty-seven for the lock. Ten for the labor. What's a pretty lady like you doin', livin' in this neighborhood alone?"

"Here's your check," she said in response, ripping it off the stack. "Have a good day." Successfully pushing the man into the stairwell, she leaned against the door and looked around. The apartment was empty. She had a moving man pull all of the furniture Angel bought out. She threw his razor and toothbrush into a Ziploc bag, and set it on Harmony's desk, with a handwritten note, "In case you feel the need, babydoll." She folded all of his clothes into boxes, and put them in storage. All that was left was a stool, a sink full of broken glasses, the phone set up on the counter, and a bathroom full of cosmetics. "What now?" she asked the empty apartment.

* * *

A knock at the door jarred her from her sleep. She was curled on the floor, a Raschel throw covering her, a rolled up sweater under her head. "Just a sec," she called, laboring to her feet. She struggled with the lock for a second, then pulled the door open a crack. "Spike?"

"Hey." He peered into her apartment. "Uh, are you just getting settled?" She looked curiously at him, then thought of her furniture. Or lack of furniture. She smiled.

"Oh, no. I just, uhm, ordered more. Furniture. To match the wood floor. Brown. From a catalog."

"Right. Catalog. Can I come in?"

"Actually," she stammered, "it's a mess. A huge mess. There's stuff everywhere."

"Buffy, you don't have any furniture."

"Not for the lack of mess," she offered, then pulled the door open. "Come in. I'll give you the grand tour." He stepped into the living room, then glanced curiously at her place on the floor. He shook his head, then let his worries roll off his shoulders. "This is the living room," she said, then pointed at the kitchen. "That's the kitchen slash dining room, and down the hall is the bathroom and across from that is the bedroom. It's tiny," she said. "But I love it."

"You don't have a bed," he said, staring at her. "Order that, too?"

"Yes," she said firmly. "I did."

"The loo is tiny," he said, looking at himself in the mirror. The fluorescent light above him made him extra pale. He looked down at the sink. One tube of toothpaste, one toothbrush. "Curiouser and curiouser," he murmered.

"Yeah. It's only the two of us," she said, smiling unsurely. "Is there a reason you came by? Not that I mind."

"Buffy, is something wrong?"

"Nothing," she said, tugging on her pony tail. "Why?"

"Your empty apartment," he said plainly. "Your one toothbrush. Your little bed here on the floor. Buffy, the headline of The National Enquirer." He held the paper up. It read, "Buffy Summers files for divorce after 4 years of marriage." The woman befor e him merely blinked.

"I don't think it's any of your business," she said. "I'm fine."

"I didn't ask if you were okay."

"Well, I am."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Buffy--" he started to reach toward her, but she pushed him away, the palm of her hand landing squarely on his shoulder.

"Sometimes, you can't keep promises," she said, wiping her tears away. "I fucked up." She folded her arms, and lowered herself to the ground. "They say if you really love someone you should let them go, and if they come back it's meant to be. But sometimes love isn't enough. It's a romantic notion to think that 'true love conquers all,' but the definition of 'true love' changes so often and so much that it's hard to say that it could win all battles. Everyone has their own definition of what love is, sometimes it's broad and moving, sometimes it is narrow and hard to capture. That's why it's so hard to find it: your true love may very well be before your eyes, you just have yet to write it into that definition." She looked up at him, pained. "I think I just typecasted him into everything I needed then. And I let myself believe that I still thought it was love, because I needed it so bad."

Spike sat on the floor next to her. This woman, who had just defined love in less than a thousand words, so perfectly, it seemed as if she had explained the meaning of life. He wiped her tears away with his thumb, then pulled her close, her head against his chest. Her hair smelled like springtime and sorrow. "Buffy, sometimes it feels like the world is falling apart, and you're standing in the middle trying to make sense of it all, I know. And I can't tell you how to make it better, because it's different for everyone. But pet—you must see that everyone makes it when they're strong. Look at Erica Kane."

"She made it because I wrote it," Buffy sobbed, looking up at Spike. "Why are you here?"

"Because, I wanted to do this," he whispered, leaning in to let his lips graze against hers. She pressed on into the kiss, her hands on his neck, his on her waist. Needily grabbing at one another, he lowered her to the floor, her blonde hair fanned around her face like the sun. "When I kiss you," he said, "the whole world stops falling apart. It's just you and I, standing still." He sat up. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm taking advantage." She watched him from her spot on the floor.

"Thank you for coming," she said. "But I'm really tired, and I have a briefing at six am, tomorrow. I think you do, too."

"You can't just sleep here on the floor," he protested.

"I'll be fine," she answered. "I'm a big girl."

"Come stay with me," he insisted, holding a hand out to help her up.

"I really couldn't."

"Why, your mum wouldn't approve? You're a big girl, Buffy."

"What if the paparazzi snap us?"

"What if they don't?"

"What if I kiss you?"

"I may just snap."


	6. Chapter 6

Faith slid across Buffy's desk. She leaned into the blonde's face, and smiled. "Hey Buff," she said, scooting off of the cherry wood. "So, I heard you weren't late this morning."

"Nope," Buffy answered, not looking up from her computer.

"I also heard you came in Spike Robinson's car."

"Yep."

"Somethin' goin' on?"

"Nope."

"Aw, come on, B! Have you even seen the man? He's fucking gorgeous!"

"Faith," she sighed, looking up at her friend, "I'm married."

"Not for long."

"I'm still married. Nothing has changed."

"Fine," Faith answered, making her way toward the door. "You don't make a claim, I'm making my move."

Buffy looked back at her computer. "Have fun."

* * *

Spike unbuttoned her jeans, and slid them off her hips; her face was buried in his neck, leaving a trail of bites and sloppy kisses, her hands underneath his shirt, digging into his skin. He groaned when he saw she wasn't wearing any underwear, and quickly found his place inside her. Her took a handful of her hair, and pulled it so he could see her face. He was met by a big grin, and they moved together in harmony, climbing the walls to climax. She called his name when she came, drawing blood on his back, and relaxed against the wall. "Wow," she whispered. "That was fucking amazing." She reached for her jeans, and watched as he composed himself. She left him with a backwards glance, she was halfway down the hall when he said, "have a good day, Faith."

* * *

Buffy stood in the kitchen, phone in her hand, and stared down at her phonebook. The list beside it read, "Clean apartment, moving men, realtor." The first two were crossed out. All she had left to do, was call a realtor. Sell this apartment. When she moved in so many years ago, she wouldn't have ever imagined leaving. She would never have imagined anyone else's arms but Angel's, never imagined signing those papers. She could never imagine life without him; now it was hard to imagine life with him. Her stomach was churning. She hadn't eaten in several hours, but still she felt like vomiting. She laid her hand on her slowly distending belly, and massaged circles into her skin. She reveled in how miraculous it was: a tiny body, a life, a heart; ten fingers and ten toes; eyes, and nose and mouth—were inside of her.

She picked up the phone, and dialed. "I'm interested in selling a one bedroom, one bath apartment."

* * *

Faith was standing outside her office when she walked up the next morning. She gave her friend a curious look, then invited her in as she unlocked. "What's up?"

"I had sex with Spike Robinson yesterday."

Buffy felt a pang of jealousy in her chest. "Oh." She sat behind her desk and started her computer. "How'd that go?"

"He's a stallion, B."

Buffy raised her brows, and mustered a smile. "When did this happen?"

"Yesterday. In his office. Against the wall." Faith sat cross-legged in the chair. "Hey, is somethin' wrong? Did you have dibs on him or something?"

"No," Buffy said, flustered. She pulled the papers from her inbox and sorted through them.

"Shit, Buffy, if I would've known, I wouldn't have—well, you know."

"I didn't have dibs."

"You so did!"

"Faith, you shoot in fifteen, you should get down there." She didn't watch as Faith left. She picked up the stack from her inbox again, and leaned back. The response to her petition for divorce was on top. "Angel countersues for custody of the fish and the furniture," she read, "great, he can have them both."

"Hey," Spike said, leaning into her office. "My kids are going to be over tonight, and they said they'd really like to see you. Well, Bren did. Em doesn't care either way." He grinned. "Well, I'm sure she does, then, if you're gonna look so glum."

"I really shouldn't," Buffy answered, signing off on Angel's petition and throwing it into her outbox. "Why don't you ask Faith?"

"Why would I ask Faith?" Buffy looked at the next sheet of paper. An internal promotion, from receptionist to writing assistant. She set it aside. "Buffy, if she told you...it was nothing."

"Why would I care if it was something? It's not like we have something going on."

"I want us to have something going on."

"Well, I can't, okay. I'm married." Buffy looked at her boss. "I don't need any extra problems right now." Spike closed the door behind him, and sat where Faith was sitting.

"I'm having my kids over tonight," he repeated. "We're going to have steaks for dinner, and I have chairs to sit on in my kitchen. "I want you to come."

Buffy looked sadly at the man in front of her. How sad must she look? An almost divorced twenty-seven year old, living in an empty apartment on the trashy side of town. "Alright," she conceded. "Okay, I'll have dinner with you. Strictly business."

"Strictly."

* * *

She was thin, but looked amazing in her salmon colored tank, and jeans. A couple necklaces dangled low on her neck, her hands were absent of rings. Her hair was curled into huge ringlets, her hazel eyes outstanding against her green eyeshadow. He wanted to touch her right then, to pull her jeans off, run his fingers through her hair; throw her down onto the floor...

"Spike?"

"Huh, love?"

"I asked you if you wanted me to pour you another glass of wine."

"Oh. Yeah," he said, holding his glass out. "You gonna have another, pet?"

"No," she said, inspecting her still full glass. "I'm fine."

"What's the matter, Buffy. You pregnant or something?"

Buffy laughed. "Nope. What would make you think that?"


	7. Chapter 7

They laced their fingers, and she smiled up at him. It had been too long since she'd done this. "Corr, love," he whispered, trying to find his feet, and drawing her close. "You sure you won't fancy me a nancy boy by the time we're done?"

"Spike," she whispered, "Shh, I love this song." She led him in the dimly lit living room, Brennan fast asleep on the couch. "Just follow my lead."

_At last, my love has come along  
My lonely days are over   
And life is like a song   
Oh, yeah, at last   
The skies above are blue   
My heart was wrapped up in clovers   
The night I looked at you   
I found a dream that I could speak to   
A dream that I can call my own  
I found a thrill to rest my cheek to   
A thrill that I have never known   
Oh, yeah when you smile, you smile   
Oh, and then the spell was cast   
And here we are in heaven  
For you are mine   
At last_

They stood at that same place when the song ended, their bodies warm against his other, his face flush from wine and beer, from her body being so close to his own. "You're a natural," she said, breaking the silence. The tension was thick.

"Thanks," he answered, squeezing her hand. "I know, we're supposed to be strictly business, but Buffy, I want to kiss you."

"What's a kiss between friends?" Their lips met. They grasped at one another, hearts pounding, legs, arms, hearts intertwined. Letting go of all inhibition, they made their way to the bedroom. There, between the sheets: they dualed.

* * *

When she bent over her jeans unsnapped. Her tight little tank tops and tee shirts showed off her slight belly. She lifted the shirt to assess her stomach in Spike's bathroom. She put her hand on the lump, rubbed it. "Hello," she whispered. "I'm your mommy." 

"Okay in there, Buffy?"

"Fine," she called back to him, pulling her shirt down hastily, and swinging the door open. She spent the whole weekend with him, and she was going to accompany him, Brennan, and Emily to a campsite Upstate. They'd be back late that night. Buffy smiled when she caught his eye. "We going to stop at my place, so I can grab some stuff?"

" 'Course."

* * *

Buffy stayed behind while they rode horses, not sure whether or not it'd be pushing her luck with the baby. She didn't go on the hot air balloon ride. She strayed behind as Spike walked and talked with his kids, letting her gaze stray too—taking in the sights of Upstate. She had never come here before. She heard the slight _plop_! of the river streaming next to her. She looked up at Spike for an answer. "A fish," she imagined him saying, or "an otter," and the kids would rush to the bank to catch a glimpse. He must not have heard it. 

"Where's Em?" Spike asked, turning back to look at Buffy. Buffy looked quickly back at the river. Without saying anything, she propelled herself into the river, hands clasped neatly above her head to break the water, her body sluicing through the freezing current, blindly reaching for the little girl. _There_, she grasped Em's shirt, pushed her up, up, up, heard her head break the surface. Someone lifted her body away.

Her lungs were on fire, and she struggled to propel herself further, her legs aching. Several more seconds passed. Where was the surface? It felt like hours.

* * *

"You're her husband, I assume?" the doctor asked, fingering the prescription pad in his pocket. Spike stood eagerly. 

"Yes," he answered quickly. "Is she okay?"

"She's steady. Her blood pressure's back down, she lost quite a bit of blood...she'll pull through, just needs some supervision. However, we fear she may lose the baby."

"The baby."

"Yes, sir, she's about a month or so along."

"Right, right. The baby. I'm sorry."

"It'll be another few hours before we know for sure. But you can see her, if you like. She's awake."


	8. Chapter 8

AN: RC; thank you for calling that detail to my attention. However, many women don't even know about their pregnancies until at least a month into it. You are able to have sex the entire time you're pregnant, as long as you're comfortable with it, unless you're medically assigned to bed rest, or have been specifically told not to indulge in sexual intercourse any time during your pregnancy. Even after giving birth, you can have sex as soon as you and your partner are ready. As for everyone else who is grossed out, or disappointed in Spike and Faith lovin', sorry. It wasn't vital in the storyline, but kind of important to show that Spike and Buffy were trying to resist each other—but we all know it's practically impossible! Thank you all for reading. Review. :)

* * *

Her hand was thrown over her eyes. A gash was bandaged on her forehead, the crimson seeping through the hours old gauze. "Buffy," he said, sitting beside her bed. "Pet, are you okay?"

"Fine," she answered, removing her hand and smiling at him, embarrassed. "I'm sorry to bring you here."

"Sorry? Love, I should be thanking you. If it weren't for you, Emily..." his voice trailed off, and he turned to look out the window. "Doc says you can go home tomorrow."

"Good," she said, nodding. She pulled herself up to sit. "I'll call a cab or something to come get me. I don't want you to miss your meeting run tomorrow morning. Advisory board, story board, script review. There's a lot to be done."

"We can't do it without you," he said, turning to look at her discriminately. "Buffy, you're script review. You're storyboard. No script gets approved without you. Everything will have to wait until you're back."

"Thursday's show will be late."

"We won't die."

"Our ratings haven't been great."

"It doesn't matter, there will be thirty-thousand desparate housewives calling to bitch at the network if they pull us. We have a long standing. We won't be cancelled."

Buffy forced a smile. "I just want to get home, and lay in my bed," she said, leaning her head back against her pillow. The sun beams from outside her window fell onto her face, pulling her highlights out, and setting a fire inside her hazel eyes.

"You don't have a bed," he reminded her. Her stomach churned. "Buffy?"

"Yeah?"

"You said you weren't pregnant."

"Wow. I, uh. Angel, he..."

"He's a fool," Spike said blankly, his hand covering hers. "A baby isn't going to scare me off."

"Maybe I will."

"I doubt it."

* * *

AN2: Sorry for the short chapter. I plan to get another one out soon. This one was more or less to get the secret out of the air, and give yuou all a standing on their relationship. Look forward to more either later tonight (12.7) or tomorrow. Love! 


	9. Chapter 9

She finished her braid, her long brown hair draped over her shoulder. "Okay," she said, shuffling cards on the floor and making herself comfortable. Buffy leaned against the wall, watching her sister wearily. "I'm gonna read your future." She laid the Tarot cards out, and Buffy sighed.

"You really don't have to do this, Dawn. I don't need a babysitter. I have a slight concussion, that's it. I can go back to work tomorrow, and you can go back to school."

"Ah, ah, ah," Dawn warned, shaking the deck at her sister. "I'm reading your future, and then we'll see what happens." Finishing setting the cards up, she summoned her sister, who scooted across the floor. She flipped the cards over one by one, contemplating each as she uncovered them. "Buffy," she said, "in order to get where you're going, you must lighten your burdens and realize that everything's not as bad as it looks. You have to quit looking for what you're looking for and let it come to you, everything happens in time. Your new special addition to your life will bring mostly harmony and some discord, but all new additions do. And, you're going to get married."

"You got all that from twelve cards?" Buffy picked a card up, and stared at it. "The Prince of Cups? I'm getting new dinnerware? Big surprise."

"No, they each mean something different," Dawn answered, plucking the card from her sister's hand. "Depending on what you're thinking about."

Buffy stared blankly. "They're psychic cards?"

"No. Well, maybe. Your horoscope in the paper today said, 'Remember, sometimes you have to kiss the frog to get Prince Charming, and he may just turn back into a frog.' " Dawn took a look around her sister's empty apartment. "Case in point: Buffy Summers." Buffy blinked. "I mean, no offense."

"Yeah," the blonde admitted, laying back on the floor, and running her hands down the length of her torso, stretching. "I know what you mean, I have a pathetic existence without Angel."

"Totally not what I meant, Buffy."

"Face it, Dawn. I'm selling my pathetic empty apartment, to live my pathetic empty life. The only thing awesome I have going for me is my job."

"Buffy, pity-fest is not your look. Neither is stretched on the floor. Have you gained a little weight?" Buffy lifted her head, to stare down at her stomach.

"I'm fat now, too?"

"Oh, no, Buffy, that's really not what I meant. Oh, I'm an idiot."

"Dawnie, if I tell you something, you promise, promise, promise not to up and tell anyone?"

"Promise," Dawn said, leaning forward.

"I'm pregnant."

"No way!" Dawn laid down next to Buffy and smiled. "When! Why! How!"

"Well, Dawn, when a man and a woman are in love...well, when a man and a woman are in bed..."

"Shut up. I mean, wow. Buffy. A baby. You."

"You think I can't do it?"

"I think it'll be hard. Is that why—I mean, is that why he left?"

Buffy nodded, staring at the ceiling. "Yeah. It could be easy, Dawn. To get him back. Just go, go to the clinic, a—and do it. But I don't think I can. I tried." She looked at her sister. "I almost had an abortion."

Dawn smiled softly. "But you didn't. I know where your heart is."

"At Angel's new place? Or Spike's? By the way...I slept with my boss."

"What?!"

* * *

Buffy's office was strangely cold, clean. Collected. She sat at her computer, flicked it on and leaned back. She hadn't been in in several days, but her voicemails were practically nonexistent, just personal calls she'd also received on her cell phone. Both her out- and inbox were empty. Two scripts were sitting on her desk. She opened the first.

All My Children

Wednesday

HAS BEEN CANCELLED.

She opened the second script. It read the same, except "Thursday." She picked up her phone, and dialed into Spike's line. No answer. Blinking, she clicked into her email. "0 New E-Mails for Last checked: 4 days ago."

"Okay," she breathed, standing up and making her way towards the lounge. "I need coffee, and an explanation." She stopped at the writer's offices. Each were empty. She shrugged, then pushed the door to the lounge open.

"Surprise!"

Faith rushed forward. "There's cake," she explained quickly. "So don't ruin this, 'cause it's free."

"Welcome back," Spike said, gesturing toward the aforementioned dessert. "I hope you like cake."

"It's 8 am!"

"It has eggs in it," Faith said, edging closer. "Can we eat it now? I need a cigarette."

Buffy smiled at Spike. "Thanks."

"No problem. Least I could do."

The staff crowded around the cake, ignoring anyone who wasn't involved in handing out a piece. "Spike, I really don't think--" Spike stopped her.

"Move in with me."

"What?"

"Move. In. With. Me."

"Move in. Your office. You know, I always wanted that office, but I like mine, actually, a lot."

"My house."

"Your house."

"I can take care of you, Buffy."

"I can take care of myself."

"Just. Just until you find a new place."

Buffy looked at him, personable, smart, impossibly handsome, sexy, and sweet. "Okay."


	10. Chapter 10

The memo arrived in a manila envelope. She untied the string and slid her finger under the seal, breaking it open. She pulled the papers out and laid them across her desk. There was a bold "X" at the bottom of the last page. Hesitantly, she bore her name across the line, then slid the papers back into the envelope. She crossed "Sell the house" off her list. She picked up her phone, and dialed Spike's extension.

"Will speaking," he answered. She melted at his voice. Well, almost. The butterflies she would otherwise write off for pregnancy, dropped from her belly. She crossed her legs.

"It's Buffy."

"Buffy. Is there something wrong with Tuesday's script? I know I shouldn't have let Faith sit in with the team."

"No, it's fine. It's great actually. I just wanted to tell you, my apartment sold today. I just got the papers, and signed. I can't believe it."

"Wow. That was fast, Buff. Are you okay?"

"A little bit of yes, a little bit of no." She buttoned and unbuttoned her blazer. She spun her chair around to admire her office view, her feet propped on her desk. "It's weird to think of other people in my house. Sitting in my living room. Sleeping in my bedroom, showering in my bathroom. I painted those walls, Spike. I laid those wood floors. I lived in that house when I was freelancing for a dingy paper down the road."

"I sold the house I lived in with Dru after she left, too. It was hard at first, but when I look back on it, it would have been harder to live there. To sleep in the bed you made love in, to eat dinner alone every night. Not that you had a bed or a dinner table or anything."

Buffy laughed. "True. Okay. Well, I better get back to this script. I just wanted to tell you." She dropped the phone back into the cradle. She felt free--she could move mountains, she could laugh, sing, jump, dance. She could fall in love. The scary thing about it, was she was. She was falling in love.

---

Spike's apartment was sparsely furnished. A couch, a dining room table, a bed. Two beds for the kids. Buffy's stuff, the little there was: three boxes of folded clothes, a box of shoes, a box of make up and toiletries: were in the corner of the kid's room. She sat cross-legged in front of them, thinking of the weird situation. "I'm living with my boss, sleeping in his kid's bed. When I get horny, I touch myself thinking about him. I'm pregnant with someone else's baby, and despite my bank account being bigger than ever, I still am the most unhappy I have ever been. I officially suck." She laid back on the floor, thinking of her little sister's Tarot cards. "Quit looking for what you're looking for. How can I quit looking for an answer?"

Her cell phone had rung probably twenty times in the last forty-five minutes. Angel had been going insane since he'd found she'd sold the house. Her bank account grew a little more; that dumpy little apartment had ended her with a cool $100,000. Under law, she owed Angel half. She wondered if he'd fight for it. She wondered if their baby looked like him: those dark eyes, the smooth face. Her heart was pounding thinking of him. At the same time, he made her sick. Spike, lately, had been swimming through her daydreams. His cerulean eyes, the chiseled cheekbones, the way his voice, even gravelly in the morning, could turn her on like a switch. Living with him, could prove a dangerous feat. If dreams were potent: she'd be having twins.

"Buffy! Are you going to have dinner with me?"

She jumped. "Hey. When'd you get home?"

"Long enough to hear you talking to yourself." Her eyes narrowed. She pulled herself to her feet then said, "how much did you hear?"

"Nothing good," he assured her, leading her into the dining room. "Dinner?"

"What's cookin', good lookin'?"

---

She arched her back, pressed her hands into his buttocks, her lips into his neck. "God, Buffy," he breathed, "I've been dreaming of this." He pushed into her one last time, then collapsed, breathing heavy. Her hands traced patterns, drawing circles in sweat and the light blonde hair on his back; she drug them up and down, to match her breath. "Hey," he whispered when she didn't answer. "You okay, love?"

"I'm fine," she answered, wriggling beneath him. She squeezed him, still inside of her, then shifted under him again. "That was _really_ nice. Really, really. I mean, wow."

"Yeah?" He thought of her ex husband—tall dark and handsome.

"Yeah."

"So we should do it more often?"

"Absolutely."


	11. Chapter 11

AN:

Okay guys, sorry. No more chapters until I can figure out the fucking uploader. I'm apparently an idiot because I can't seem to figure out how to format my story to look DECENT on this fucking website anymore (obviously I'm frustrated). I'm so annoyed with the fact the FF used to be user-friendly, and now you have to fucking jump through hoops to write a goddamn story. So, I'm asking you as my readers (who want to know what happens, hopefully), to please e-mail me and either I'll find you smart enough to teach me, or trustworthy enough to load it for me! Thanks guys. vietnamazing at gmail

Heather.


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